Today is my six-year breast cancerversary. For me, this means that six years ago today I heard the words, “I’m sorry. It is cancer.”
I didn’t write this to be helpful or inspiring or educational. I wrote it because it’s what’s true.
I’m sharing it here not because I’m looking for comfort, but because I know someone else out there might need to know they’re not alone.
This is what it feels like—really feels like—to live in the aftermath of cancer and chronic illness.
It’s not pretty. It’s not tied with a bow. But it’s honest.
Journal Entry – 7.17.25 – My Six-Year Cancerversary
I’ve already slept in till 8:20, fallen back asleep until 10, and now, I’m bawling. I think I have a lot more to do.
It feels like a death anniversary. It feels sad, overwhelming, exhausting. It feels like grief, sadness, pain, loss.
When I first woke at 8:30, I woke to a picture of OJ at the top of Humphreys. He’d climbed it in just under two hours like he was hoping to, so he could get $500 from his friends for a bet. He sent a picture to the family chat, and the replies started rolling in—cheering him on, telling him he’s insane and amazing and the GOAT.
And it just made me feel… so unseen, misunderstood, alone, unappreciated. Terribly sad and hurt.
I’m happy for him. I am.And—did he have to do that today of all days?And—did he have to completely not get how I feel, sitting in bed at home?And—did he have to then share his greatness with all of our children?
He just called, and I told him: “Wow, congrats.”
And then, “And did you forget what day it is for me?”
He said he didn’t, but I told him, “You don’t understand. You’re the person closest to me who’s been with me through it all, and you don’t get it at all.”
If OJ doesn’t get it, how could I ever expect that anyone else would?
It feels so lonely. And I’m crying once more.
He’s off to celebrate with his buddy by getting a gluten-free breakfast, and he says maybe he’ll bring me a scone.
I am exhausted, depleted, so tired of having to rally each time.
I just want to be able to go to Pilates, or for a walk, or to church, or to our addiction recovery group, or to write, or even read, without having to rally, without feeling sick. I have to rally just to exist each day in any way other than as a lump in my bed.
Cancer changed everything!It took everything!
It took: my body, my health, my safety, my innocence, my youth, my hormones, my autonomic nervous system regulation.
My cardiovascular health, my abilities, my talents, my exercise and coping tools, my hair and my brain and my capability to achieve.
It took my standing and sitting and walking and traveling, my friends and family, my work and career, my money and time and purpose!!
It has taken so much!And it keeps on taking!!
My spring.My summer.My 4th of July.My visiting my kids or going to the beach this year.Any sense of feeling “well.”And my confidence.And any thought that I might live a long and healthy life doing what I love.And even my dreams and ability to fulfill them.It’s taken the last years of parenting my kids and being the mom I was before. It’s taken my last years of being young.
And it’s left me with fear and grief and pain and illness and so much uncertainty and confusion and frustration.It’s left me facing my own mortality over and over and over, and with anxiety and depression and PTSD, the trauma and loss that keeps resurfacing and surfacing in rounds like waves in a lake that keeps crashing big and rough, etc.
It’s left me with missing out, with feeling left out and behind, and with POTS, MCAS, EDS and chronic idiopathic constipation, with a completely amputated, rearranged, and altered body with not-so-working functioning.
It’s left me lost and wondering, “Who even am I now?” and knowing I can never be who I was, who I loved being, before.
It’s left me utterly depleted, exhausted on every level and in every way. I’ve given it my absolute all, and it keeps on taking—and giving, in all the worst ways.
That is the honest truth I feel deep in my tired bones today.
No gratitude that I’m “cancer-free”—because am I?
I certainly am not free of cancer.
I really don’t think I ever will be.
Love,Me
Closing Note:I don’t have a tidy way to wrap this up. Sometimes all we can do is speak the truth and let it land where it needs to. If you’re still here reading, thank you for witnessing mine.
If this speaks to you, I’d love to hear your honest truth. Leave a comment, below.
Subscribe for updates on my “Reluctant Warrior: Breast Cancer Emotional Survival Guide” book,
& then read the first in the series, here or “My 5 Year Breast Cancerversary” here.
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